


Dumb Ways to Die

by Era_Penn



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath, Alcohol Abuse, Angst, Caring, Drinking, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, Nightmares, PTSD, Reoccurring Death, Spoilers, Temporary Character Death, cool facial hair bros, dealing with tough crap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-29 23:52:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8510599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Era_Penn/pseuds/Era_Penn
Summary: *spoilers* The first shot burns . The second shot makes his eyes water slightly.He’s halfway through the bottle and decidedly drunk when he gains a companion."How many times?""I lost count."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Глупые способы умереть](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11387667) by [escuadrilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/escuadrilla/pseuds/escuadrilla)



> So, I enjoyed the new Doctor Strange movie, and had some feels, and wrote a thing. It's a bit fragmented, but I wanted to get it down on paper.

The thing is - the thing is, when it’s over, Stephen’s expecting Mordo to catch him. They save the world, they go home, he crashes like a light. Since this whole journey started, Mordo is the one who has stood by him, is the one who believed in him, is the one who let him into a wider world than Stephen ever knew existed, is the best friend he has in it. 

Only it doesn’t work out that way, because Mordo is talking about reckonings and prices and _can’t you see I’ve already paid -_

And Mordo is gone before it’s all sunk in.

Stephen stands there, and he stares at the spot where Mordo stepped into another country like the man is about to come back. Like he’ll change his mind.

“Stephen?” Wong asks. There is some desperation in his voice, along with some hesitation, and Stephen wonders how many times Wong has already called him.

He opens his mouth to answer and finds his voice is stuck in his throat, as though he can’t remember words beyond that endless, mindless chant, _Dormammu! I’ve come to bargain -_

Then, he is staring at the sky, and there is an arm bracing under his arms and spots in his eyes, and he falls, and falls, and falls.

* * *

“What happened?” Wong asks.

Stephen doesn’t answer.

“What happened?” Christine asks.

Stephen doesn’t answer.

The cloak, the cloak was there, and Stephen wakes from nightmares wrapped up in it, enfolded so tightly he almost, almost feels safe, can hold back the heavy words dancing on the tip of his tongue.

_Dormammu! I’ve come to bargain -_

* * *

“What happened?” Wong asks.

“Where’s the nearest bar?” Stephen doesn’t answer.

Wong doesn’t answer, and Stephen decides the best way to find out is to go out looking. He changes into a pair of slacks, a sharp button down. The cape refuses to stay behind, but it works oddly well with the ensemble, and Stephen leaves. Walks straight out the front door of the New York sanctuary and starts to wander. He passes loud, crowded bars, walks until he doesn’t know how much time has passed. He feels time moving forward, like a breath of fresh air against his skin, revels in watching the minutes tick by on the thick watch on his wrist. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Relief. Time is moving, is continuing.

Stephen finds a small bar. It is busy, but not loud, or crazy. The bartender eyes his cape a bit askance, but forks over the two bottles of Vodka Stephen orders easily enough. Stephen pays on the spot. 

“Keys,” the bartender demands, eyeing the bottles.

“Didn’t bring them,” Stephen says, and gives his sling ring to the cape to hold. The gold vanishes into the moving red, and the bartender shrugs.

“Probably for the best,” he replies. “Phone?”

“Didn’t bring that either,” Stephen says. He takes his bottles and a shot glass to a table in the back of the room, out of the way. This is a terrible idea; drinking and unfathomable magical ability aren’t likely to mix well. He’s a lightweight, too, hasn’t ever drunk much. Doing surgery with a hangover seemed unwise.

The first shot burns (not as hot as real fire) and warms him from the inside (but not like his blood did, boiling in his veins). The second shot makes his eyes water slightly (the dehydration was worse, made him feel like a worm in the desert, wasting what little water he had to preserve his sight).

He’s halfway through the bottle and decidedly drunk when he gains a companion.

“How many times?”

Stephen looks up. The man seems familiar, and sets two bottles of his own next to Stephen’s. “What?” he rasps. There is something in the man’s eyes, dark and understanding, full of the sight of a world none of the living should know.

“I know a fellow dead man when I see one,” the man says, tapping absently on the center of his shirt. He grabs a bottle opener off the table and pops one open.

“Tony Stark,” Stephen realizes. Here is a man who knows death.

Stark raises the bottle to him. “Guilty as charged,” he replies, and starts to drink. “So, how many times?”

“I lost count after two hundred thirty seven,” Stephen replies. Dormammu hadn’t run out of patience as quickly as Stephen thought he would. The ancient being had been waiting a long, long time to take the planet, and tried every way he’d ever heard of to kill Stephen. “Every time in a different way.”

Stark whistles. “Drink up,” he advises. “It sometimes helps with the nightmares.”

Stephen obeys, and over the hours, the two men get drunker and drunker. 

“What happened?” Stark asks. He doesn’t ask with worry, or guilt. He asks in fascination, in camaraderie, in the way of assholes who just want to know everything.

Stephen answers. He talks about losing his hands, about learning magic, about the damn cape trying to tug the bottle of vodka out of his hand, about Mordo and Wong and the Ancient One, whose name no one remembers, about putting himself in a loop and dying over and over and over and over…

For some reason he’s giggling by the end, and he thinks it probably has to do with the eight bottles on the table in front of them, because he’s pretty sure they only had four. He also probably has a few brain functions on the fritz.

“Well,” Tony says, hiccuping, “At least Death is pretty non-judgmental and plays a mean game of chess.”

And Stephen vaguely remembers the in-between moments, when Death let him lean on Her and sob and told him _stay strong, your time isn’t come yet_ , even as he begged to just die.

“Sometimes,” Stephen says in a small voice, “I wish She’d just kept me.”

Tony nods. They share a moment of understanding; Tony hasn’t died so many times, but he’s seen the World After and remembers it in pieces like flashes of a dream. Real but unreal. 

Stephen turns to stare at the empty, wobbly bottles on the table. “This seems like a bad idea,” he says, slurred. “Like driving drunk, except the car is made of magic that could destroy the planet.”

Tony shrugs. “We’re only human.” He seems much less drunk than Stephen.

“177A Bleecker Street,” Stephen says.

“Giving me your address?” Tony sounds confused.

“Think I’m going to pass out,” Stephen says. He’s vaguely aware of the sound of shattering glass and darkness falling around them, then he’s gone.

* * *

“Never again,” Stephen mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut and wrapping the blankets tighter around himself without moving more than a finger.

In the bed next to him, someone giggles. “I’ve said that a couple times,” he says. “Never seems to stick.”

Stephen peels his eyes open as the night comes back in bits and pieces, glaring at the billionaire in the other half of the king-sized bed (big and empty, too big and too empty during nights so still it’s as though time has stopped). Thank God they’re both fully clothed.

“You can glare as much as you want, there’s no getting rid of me now. We’re _cool facial hair bros_ ,” Tony Stark says.

“No, we’re _not_ ,” Stephen growls.

“Wasn’t my idea.”

“I’m going to deny that to the end of - for forever.”

“I won’t tell,” Tony replies. 

Stephen glares at him. Tony is far too cheery for the morning after. The cape seems to agree, toppling the billionaire out of bed before drifting over to tuck itself around Stephen’s form and press his sling ring back into his palm, adding to the warmth of the blankets.

Stephen laughs. He laughs, and laughs, as Tony curses on the floor, and it almost feels real.

* * *

There’s no sign of Wong when they stagger into the kitchen, but there’s hot coffee in the pot and a plate of cold bacon on the counter.

“How much of last night do you remember?” Tony asks.

“Most of it,” Stephen replies. “Though the ending is a little muddled.”

“Somehow,” Tony replies, “every scrap of glass in the tavern shattered, including the lightbulbs and liquor bottles.”

“Shit,” Stephen groans.

“Don’t worry, I paid for it. Could’ve been way worse.”

_Dormammu! I’ve come to bargain -_

“Get out,” Stephen says without any force. “Can’t have you cluttering up the place or messing with old books in the library capable of destroying the universe just by being opened.”

“Yeah, yeah, call me a cab,” Tony laughs.

Stephen opens a portal with his sling ring and shoves Tony through into his own penthouse. 

“Bastard!” Tony yells from somewhere past it.

“Bring back my coffee mug when you’re done!” Stephen hollers, and closes the portal. He turns around and freezes when he sees Wong standing in the entryway.

Wong slowly shakes his head. “What... No, I don’t even want to know,” he says.

Stephen answers anyway.


End file.
